


Sugar and Allspice

by Izzyzal (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alex should probably plan better, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Charles is a Baker, Charles is still Professor X though, Charles's terrible dress sense, Chess By Mail, Erik is a CEO, Erik's short temper, F/M, M/M, No one pays attention, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unbeta'd, everyone is awkward, no way that can go wrong, powdered sugar leads to love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:37:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Izzyzal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr is the no-nonsense CEO of a company that basically exists as a front for the Brotherhood of Mutants. He's had a bit of trouble in the past with the reclusive Professor Xavier, his irritating pacifist ways, and the Xavier Institute of Higher Learning. His life was complicated enough before he received a free sample from a bakery and fell in love by proxy. It's too bad he has no idea what bakery it came from.</p><p>[On Hiatus]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. German Spice Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I go, trying to write an X-Men fanfic. Oh god, the pressure. It hurts. I’m going to be taking liberties and those who are familiar with my work know _that’s what I do_. Do you want to know where this idea came from? Cookie Clicker. Blame it. Anyway, this is a modern XMFC AU and only sort of canon compliant. I ship some things that people don’t approve of. If you’re here for the Cherik, that’ll be the primary focus. Warning: this fic is a WIP and is assisting me through my current Hulkeye writer’s block.
> 
> Updates will be posted to my Tumblr [here](http://hierophantasmic.tumblr.com/).

The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning (formerly Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters) was a front, but a front for what, not many people knew.

As a matter of fact, very few things were known about the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning (normally just called Xavier’s because both names were a goddamn mouthful). On the surface, it was exactly what it purported to be: it was a school for gifted children to learn among like-minded and like-gifted peers without the burdens of the less talented weighing them down, for lack of a better word. More to the point, it sounded like a pretentious private school that only the loftiest and self-absorbed parents with more money than sense would even consider sending their children. It was insanely exclusive, too; everyone knew that the governor of New York had attempted to enroll his children only to be coldly, if politely, dismissed.

Xavier’s certainly had a stigma to it. Located in a mansion in the Westchester countryside, it conjured up mental images of the elite, spoiled children of the jet-setters of the world learning to play polo and sipping champagne beside the heated pool while they laughed about the plights they’d read in the New Yorker but barely possessed the capacity to understand.

But that was the surface.

Those in the know--and there were very few of them--were aware that Xavier’s was a school specifically catering to mutants. Of course, ‘catering’ was probably the wrong word. Mutant children who had difficulty controlling their powers (read: all of them) could go to the mansion and learn mastery over their bodies and their studies under the tutelage of adult mutants who already had control of both. It was a school, certainly, and they were even accredited, though how they’d managed that was anyone’s guess. The most notable part of the deal was that families living far away from Westchester, even in other countries, had little to worry about. They simply had to contact the school, a representative would be sent out to meet the child, and (if a mutant) said child would be taken for schooling at Xavier’s.

No tuition. No cost for room and board. No traveling expenses, as all out-of-city children were sent back home for holidays if they so wished.

It was the most extravagant pro-mutant charity organization that Erik Lehnsherr had ever seen, and he thought it was absolutely ridiculous.

As Xavier’s was a front for a mutant school, so Lehnsherr Enterprises (called ‘the least creative name ever’ by Erik’s far-too-mouthy errand boy) was a front for... well, certainly not a school, but a pro-mutant organization, certainly. It was in Manhattan, in view of that god-awful monstrosity known as Stark Tower (or was it Avengers Tower now? He never could keep up with it) but far less garish. It was on the highest floor of Lehnsherr Enterprises that Erik Lehnsherr was currently seated, his feet kicked up on his desk, his tie loosened, and a newspaper in his hands.

A quick knock was the only prelude to his PA sweeping into the room as though she owned the place. Erik frowned, the barest crease between his eyebrows, as he stared at the newspaper in front of him. She was a white storm, a blizzard, and her very presence made the metal in his office colder. She looked unconcerned, skirting his desk and taking hold of the top of his newspaper with one perfectly manicured (white) fingernail to pull it down.

“Emma,” he said, flicking his eyes up to meet hers once he’d decided that completely ignoring her was impossible. She stared at him, and he stared at her, and in the back of his mind, he was aware that this could probably go on for hours. He sighed, his frown deepening, as he pulled his newspaper away from her and flicked it closed. “What do you want?” he asked, tossing the folded paper on his desk.

“I want you to work.” Emma Frost was an impeccable PA, which made her a thorn in Erik’s side. He was positive he had never seen her in anything besides head-to-toe white, and if so much as a strand of hair was out of place, he was positive she was hungover. If it wasn’t for Emma, Erik wouldn’t get anything done.

Erik sighed and moved his feet off his desk before Emma could tell him to (and it was his desk, dammit). “I am working,” he said, in a voice that he refused to admit was defensive. “I’m catching up on the news, and staying up on current events is part of my job.”

The look she gave him could have frozen lava.

He sighed and folded his hands on his desk. “Then I’m going to assume you have a _better_ idea of what I could be doing?”

“Yes,” she said, producing a manila envelope from-- where the hell had she gotten that? Erik stared as she pulled a sheaf of papers from it and began thumbing through them. “You have a few more meetings on your calendar. They’re already scheduled and confirmed, so you need to be there. There’s some Brotherhood business that needs your attention, because Toad has taken to calling something the ‘Detonation Demonstration’ and you’re required to talk him out of it.”

Erik groaned.

“You have another letter from Professor X--”

“When did that come in?”

“This morning,” she said, handing it to him. He practically snatched it out of her hand, glaring at the impeccable handwriting on the front of the envelope. Erik narrowed his eyes, following the familiar calligraphic scrawl spelling out the name of his company (attention: himself) and the address. It was always listed as being from Professor Xavier, no other name provided.

Erik ripped the envelope open and unfolded the paper. The same handwriting stared up at him, and really, how old _was_ this professor to still engage in paper-and-pen correspondence when he’d already provided the man his email address?

Emma fell silent as Erik read over the paper, drumming his fingers on the desk. It was more peaceful drivel from the self-proclaimed headmaster of Xavier’s, written to him as the leader of the Brotherhood. More tripe about how they needed to find a better way or some shit like that. It was clear that he and the professor were never going to see eye-to-eye on anything.

Well, most anything. In a postscript beneath the signature was scrawled the words, “bishop to E3”.

Erik got to his feet and moved to the corner of his office, moving the white bishop to the appropriate square. He stared at the board, frowning. Damn. He hadn’t anticipated that.

“So, you also have that to respond to,” Emma said, waving her hand dismissively as she left the necessary papers on his desk. “Just please, actually get some work done today. I’ll send Alex for your lunch around eleven thirty.”

And just like that, she was gone. Erik released a breath as the cold that accompanied her diamond mind disappeared. He moved to the large windows that dominated the south wall, pressing his hands into the pockets of his dark grey suit pants.

Lehnsherr Enterprises was, much like Xavier’s, something entirely different on the surface. They were an engineering firm, and they did world-renowned work. Tony Stark himself had outsourced projects for mass production to him (generally the manufacture of metal components needed for his general distribution products), and they had a longstanding contract with Oscorp Industries to craft all metal casing for their products as well (on the occasion that they dabbled in the market). While Lehnsherr Enterprises rarely created anything that dealt with the public directly, the name was well-known.

The money itself existed for the sole purpose of funding the Brotherhood of Mutants, which was not something well-known. If Erik had to guess, he would assume that Stark knew, but the man was either short-sighted or arrogant enough to continue doing business with him.

Unlike Xavier’s, the Brotherhood typically employed those mutants already in adulthood. While some were attempting to integrate into human society, the Brotherhood preferred their own special brand of vigilante justice. It was never enough to call the big guns in on them (except the one time that Captain America decided they’d gone too far), but it was enough to get their message across.

Xavier’s wanted the humans to know that mutants could live among them.

The Brotherhood wanted the humans to know that the mutants could, and did, live above them.

Unsurprisingly, Professor Xavier--and Erik wasn’t sure how this man was headmaster, when it was widely known that a woman named Ororo Munroe was the headmistress (deputy?) of Xavier’s--had opened a dialogue with Magneto, the infamous head of the Brotherhood. The manner of address, and the place that he sent it, suggested that this Professor Xavier knew more than Erik would really like for him to. Still, they’d never had police or Avengers or Deadpool in their lobby, and for that, Erik would consider it a victory.

Still, Professor Xavier was an idealist and, in Erik’s opinion, an idiot. For two years, they’d been communicating through letters, both unsuccessfully persuading, neither actually managing to change the other’s mind on a single thing. Erik had been very close to throwing the letters out and ignoring the rest of them when Xavier had managed to intrigue him. About a year ago, he’d included a note. ‘I’m white, you’re black,’ the note had said, followed by the words, ‘Pawn to D4’.

Erik had stared at it for five minutes before he began laughing. His response had been, ‘First-move advantage, my friend? Pawn to D5.’ And they had played.

In that year, they had accomplished three games, each chalking up a win and the last ending in a stalemate. The fact that they were in the middle of their fourth game was reason enough for Erik to want the letters to continue. He hated Professor Xavier, whoever he was, but he couldn’t help respecting the man’s talent at chess.

His morning was occupied with preparing for his meetings and arranging things for the Brotherhood while pretending he wasn’t wholly focused on what his next move with Professor Xavier would be. When the knock came at his door just slightly after noon, he jumped a little bit. “Come,” he said once he’d recovered.

The door opened on a scruffy youth who wouldn’t have been allowed further than the lobby if it hadn’t been for his employee ID badge. His blonde hair was just slightly too long, and his leather jacket had seen better days. His face was slightly wind burned and he held a paper bag under his arm.

“Hey, boss. Lunch.”

“Summers,” Erik greeted, watching as Alex moved through the office and set the bag down with a thud.

“Sorry I’m late. Fuckin’ cold out there,” the blonde said. “The deli was crowded, too. But, hey, there was some blonde chick there giving out free cookie samples, so I scored one of those for you.”

“Thank you, Summers,” Erik said, watching as the kid (and he was twenty, he shouldn’t have been calling him a kid) shrugged as though he didn’t care and walked right back out. Havok was, without a doubt, a huge asset to the Brotherhood, but he was obnoxious in person. Apparently, he had a kid brother that was in attendance at Xavier’s, and after knowing what Erik knew of Alex’s powers he shuddered to think of what an untrained child might be capable of.

The sandwich was good, the soup was acceptable, and Erik barely tasted any of it as he plowed through his paperwork. His food-mouth-paper mantra continued until... well. In the future, Erik would mentally refer to it as the moment that “it” happened. The moment the spiced powdered sugar hit his tongue, he knew. The cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg in the cookie itself were just confirmation.

Erik snapped out of his daze to stare at the half-eaten cookie in his hand. It was a Pfeffernüsse, and it tasted... it tasted _exactly_ like the cookies that his mother had made for him when he was a child. It was no cheap imitation.

His hand was on his phone before his brain even registered that he was reaching for it. “Emma, get Alex,” he said, not even giving the woman a chance to speak. “I want to know what bakery these cookies came from, and I want to know right now.”

\- - -

The Xavier Institute for Higher Learning was funded entirely by the fortune that Charles Xavier had inherited in the deaths of his mother and stepfather. While the money had, strictly speaking, been his father’s, it was only once the man who had paraded around as a farce of a patriarch died that he had any access to it.

The Westchester mansion itself was Charles Xavier’s childhood home, renovated to house as many mutant children as necessary. The deputy headmistress was Ororo Munroe, called ‘Storm’ by those she liked well enough to permit the nickname from, and she handled most of the day-to-day activity. It wasn’t that Charles Xavier wasn’t good with children, it was just that he was...

...well. He was busy.

At the moment, he was busy brushing powdered sugar off his lower arms and out of his hair.

“It’s all right, Hank,” he said, cutting off the young man’s stumbling apologies. “No harm done. Just a bit of powdered sugar. It’s not as if we don’t have more.”

“Yes, I know, but I’m just, well--”

“Hank, it’s all right,” Charles laughed, reaching up to clap the taller male on his shoulders (and leaving twin powdered sugar handprints on the material of his red checkered shirt). “I know you didn’t come here to help me with the bakery, anyway. You just surprised me.”

It was true. For a telepath, Charles was incredibly easy to sneak up on, usually because he was so focused on his own thoughts that he wouldn’t notice a car coming at him until it had flattened him in the street. All Hank had done was tap him on the shoulder, and that had been enough to send the bag of powdered sugar all over the kitchen.

“Yo, Prof,” a voice called from the front (and there was no telling that boy not to call him Professor out of the school), “we got any more of those cinnamon things?”

“Snickerdoodles,” Charles called back, rolling his eyes and listening to Sean snigger at having successfully gotten the word, which apparently sounded hilarious with a British accent, out of Charles’s mouth. “Yes, we do, Sean. The rack.”

“Got it!”

Hank, who was still in the process of cleaning himself and Charles of powdered sugar, smiled a bit ruefully. “Actually, I _am_ here to help with the bakery,” he said, pushing his glasses up the end of his nose.

Charles raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh? What happened?”

“Apparently Logan thinks I don’t get out enough. I’ve had access to my lab revoked indefinitely, barring an emergency, until Ororo decides that I’ve sufficiently absorbed some outside air or something.”

Laughing, Charles guided Hank back out into the main section of the bakery. “Logan just has your best interests in mind. You know that.”

“It’s low to turn his wife on me, though.”

“I never said he was above dirty tactics.” He raised his hands before Hank even spoke. “And don’t look at me, I just give money to the school. I have no say in how it’s run anymore.”

Hank sighed and Charles offered him a sympathetic smile. Logan and Hank definitely made the strangest ‘best friend’ duo he’d ever seen. One was often compared to a lumberjack, often in ways even more unflattering than they sounded, while the other was a too-tall, too-scrawny scientist with curious feet and an inability to hold a conversation with someone he’d known for less than three months. Still, Hank was one of the few people Charles knew that could best Logan in an arm-wrestling match. The boy was stronger than he looked.

“Listen, I needed some help with the bakery, anyway,” Charles said, ignoring Sean’s ‘what happened to the two of you?’ from the other side of the counter. “With Christmas coming up... listen, Cerebro’s in good working condition, the teachers can handle any problems that come up in the school, and if we get a new student who requires equipment, I’m positive they’d let you back in the lab. For now, though, I’d be glad to have you. It’s not hard work, anyway.”

Hank sighed, nodding, and Charles favored him with a brighter smile than before as he looked around the interior of the bakery. It was a quaint place, and most of those who came in thought it was probably run by an older couple. The interior was all warm colors and little tables and chairs where people could have desserts served to them. The counter dominated the wall across from the door, full of display cases and blocking off the kitchens from the dining area. Charles had started it about a year and a half ago, and while business wasn’t lucrative, it was enough to live off of.

Sean bid the two women who’d come in for the Snickerdoodle cookies a nice day as they left, the bell jingling merrily. Cold air swept in, as well as a flurry of snowflakes, as a blonde came in right after they’d gone. She shivered and removed her gloves, rubbing her hands together.

“All gone?” Charles asked as he crossed to her, removing her wet hat, scarf, and gloves.

“Yep, all gone,” Raven said with a grin, her nose and cheeks a bright red from the bitter cold outside. She stripped off her coat and handed it off to her brother, who crossed to hang them up. “Hey, Hank. What’s up? Someone blow up your lab?”

“No,” the scientist said, too miserable at his current situation to even be flustered at her presence. “I got kicked out.”

Charles laughed softly. “Apparently, Logan’s worried about his social life, so he’s sentenced him to work here with no lab access for the foreseeable future.”

Raven and Sean both looked over at that. “Wait, _Logan_ is worried about someone else’s _social life_?” Sean asked, his eyes widening incredulously. “Logan wouldn’t know a social life if it waltzed up and bit him in the--”

“He’s probably sick of you whining to him,” Raven said, talking over Sean. “So he’s fixing it the Logan way. Y’know, the most direct and probably worst way possible. Anyway, the samples went over bit. People liked the German spice cookies especially. Hopefully it’ll drum up some interest in the bakery. I ran out of cards a little bit before noon, but I kept handing cookies out. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” Charles said, waving his hand.

Sugar and Allspice, as the bakery was called, had been called ‘a stupid idea’ by Raven the first day Charles had mentioned it. After all, Charles couldn’t cook, and neither could Raven, and why the hell would he want to have a bakery when he had the school to worry about and more money than he could spend in a lifetime even if he’d tried?

But that wasn’t the point. Charles felt, sometimes, as though he was living two very distinctive lives. The first was that of Professor Xavier, head of the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning and one of the wealthiest men on the planet. The second was that of Charles Xavier, the owner and manager of Sugar and Allspice, a small bakery in the Village.

The money that Charles had inherited... it was all for the school and its students. He’d wanted no part of that. In fact, the only money he’d actually taken for himself from his inheritance had been used to purchase the building they were standing in and prepare it to be a bakery. For himself, it was the money from the profits of the bakery that he lived off. He didn’t even live at the Institute anymore, having converted the top floor of the bakery into an apartment. Maybe it _was_ stupid, having access to all of his money and not using any of it on himself.

Still, he didn’t want any part of it. He knew where the money had come from, and as much as he’d loved his father, his practices and work had been terrible for mutantkind. He wanted no part of it. What better way to use it than in the education of young mutants?

Besides, it wasn’t all bad. He was still the ultimate authority at the Institute, no matter what he said, and he enjoyed visiting when he could. Children from the school found their way to the bakery frequently, as well, and he enjoyed seeing them. He had Raven and Sean helping him at the bakery (the former because it was easier than a ‘real job’ and the latter because he was too loud for any other employer to put up with), and during the summer the older students had a place to get a part-time job to help with their integration into society.

Really, it could have been a lot worse. Particularly since the most stressful part of his life anymore was waiting for letters from the elusive Magneto.

“Come along, we have baking to do,” Charles said, motioning for Raven to follow him. “Hank, you too. If you’re going to be working here, you get to learn the baking.”

“Hey, when am _I_ gonna get to learn to bake?” Sean called after their retreating backs.

“The day I let you near these ovens is the day I go bald, Sean!”

\- - -

Erik couldn’t believe it.

He’d had probably the best Pfeffernüsse that had ever touched his lips since his mother’s passing. It had been _perfect_. The spices, the consistency, the flavor, the smell... all of it had sent him crashing back to the winters of his childhood, probably one of the only good places he had left in his mind at all.

It had been perfect.

And Alex had no idea where the cookie had come from.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said, for about the fifth time. “The girl who was handing out the samples told someone else she was out of cards and I didn’t think to ask about the name! You don’t even like cookies!” he added, the argument perfectly reasonable because it was true, but also unacceptable because Erik was not in the mood to be wrong.

“Who was she?”

“I don’t know!” Alex said, holding his hands up. “She was just some girl with a bag in the deli! She, uh, was blonde, does that help?”

“No!”

The boy flinched away slightly and Erik sat down heavily behind his desk, glaring at him. “I have a new task for you, Summers.” Alex paled, and Erik could see his throat move as he swallowed. “You are going to _find_ that bakery. You have two weeks, or you’re fired.”

Alex’s eyes widened and his voice gained about two octaves. “What?!”

“You heard me.”

“Do you have any _idea_ how many bakeries there are in this city?! It could take me months to find it!”

“You don’t have months, you have two weeks.”

Five minutes later, the boy stormed out of Erik’s office, spouting all different sorts of colorful curses. Erik ignored him, folding his hands and glaring at the window as a soft snowfall drifted past the glass. He _would_ find the bakery, dammit, and he would find out who the hell was in charge of it.

And then he’d probably order ten dozen of those cookies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bakery AU is the least interesting AU but I wanted to do it so I did.


	2. Generic Holiday Cookies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for more fluff. I will try to make this fic JUST FLUFFY and not angsty but I’m so fond of angst I’m not holding my breath. There’s also some plot in here somewhere, I think, but I haven’t exactly found it yet.

Hank’s protests of ‘but I can’t cook’ had fallen on deaf ears. He, Charles, and Raven chatted idly as they worked dough with their hands, Hank between the other two so that they could guide him properly.

“I can’t cook either,” Raven said, “and Charles is worse than I am. But you’re not cooking, you’re baking.”

That had been the difference, and it was the reason that only baked goods could be found at Sugar and Allspice. As Charles said, cooking was an art, but baking was science. “As long as you follow the recipe,” he’d told Raven, “you can’t screw it up. The instructions are all right in front of you.” And, skeptical though she was, it really wasn’t as hard as she’d feared. There was trial and error involved, sure, and they’d thrown out at least one batch of burned something-or-other per day, but as long as no one misread anything and the equipment cooperated, the delicacies produced were good. Excellent, even.

Of course, when they’d started out, they’d just been using free use recipes they got off the internet. Charles, in his infinite charm, had been able to fix that very quickly. He was notorious for talking to the customers more than working (not that anyone cared), and it had just taken a few conversations with elderly ladies out doing their shopping to improve their quality. After all, they’d wondered where the recipes came from, and when Charles had said--perfectly honestly--that their mother hadn’t left any family recipes for them...

Well. Too many of those ladies had no children or grandchildren interested in taking on their family recipes. They were just happy that they could pass the food onto someone who would do something good with it, and Charles was quite eager to drop the free use baked goods.

It wasn’t long after that acquisition that Sugar and Allspice had gotten one hell of a reputation in certain circles. Sure, they normally called it ‘that bakery in the Village’, but it got people in the door. What did he care if people didn’t know the name or exactly where they were located?

“See?” Charles said as Hank pushed on the dough with his hands, tilting his head to push his glasses up with his shoulder. “You’re a scientist. Think of this as a lab where you can eat all of your work.”

“Before it’s even baked, if you’re Charles,” Raven said with a grin.

“Tattler,” Charles laughed, even as Hank nervously warned about the dangers of the consumption of raw eggs.

“Oh, shit,” Raven said, looking up at the clock on the wall. “I need to go pick up Kurt. Will you two be okay here?”

“Of course,” Charles said with a smile. “You’ll be back?”

“Mhm,” she said distractedly, toweling off her hands and exiting through the back. Hank watched her go, a forlorn look on his face. Smiling sympathetically, Charles reached up to pat him on the back. Hank jumped slightly before looking at him questioningly.

Charles shook his head. “It’s not official, you know. I don’t think they’re even dating. ...I don’t think.”

“They have a child,” Hank said with a sigh, turning back to the dough he was kneading and putting a little too much force into it. “And he’s an _ass_.”

The telepath’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Kurt?”

“What? No! No,” Hank said quickly.

“Oh, yes, Azazel. I don’t disagree.”

“Why don’t you just...” Hank trailed off, a strangely hopeful note in his voice.

Charles shook his head and began rolling out the dough on a floured cutting sheet. “Because that would be the fastest way to ensure that Raven just runs away with him. I don’t know that much about Azazel--he has excellent shields, and I promised her that I wouldn’t pry, anyway--but whatever you think of him, you have to admit he takes care of her. And he makes her happy. I understand your concerns, Hank, but it’s Raven’s decision. She’s far past the point of me directing her life.”

Hank huffed quietly, not arguing, but clearly not happy, either.

Charles shook his head. Hank had been far too slow in making any sort of move on Raven (not that Charles blamed him, with his anxiety), and by the time he’d finally gotten up the courage, she had been obsessed with a teleporter she’d met at a pro-mutant hangout called the Hellfire Club. She’d met a lot of interesting types there, most of whom Charles had only heard of, and he’d actually only met Azazel three or four times. He knew that one of the students at the Institute, Scott, was the little brother of one of her Hellfire friends’ friends, but that was about as far as his knowledge extended.

Despite what people believed, he didn’t know absolutely everything just because he was a telepath. He _did_ know that Hank’s obsession with Raven was mostly due to the fact that she had been available to him and now no longer was, but the boy was convinced he was in love, so Charles thought it best to just leave him to discover things on his own.

Really, the most frustrating part of being a telepath was knowing what people needed or wanted before they did themselves, and forcing yourself to say nothing.

The cookies were cut into different Christmas shapes and laid out on a baking sheet. “Thank you for your help here, Hank,” Charles said, to turn the conversation to a less depressing topic. “How are you at icing?”

To his credit, the young scientist managed a smile. “Never tried it, but I’m willing to learn.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Two hours later, a squeal out in the dining room caught Charles’s attention. “Come on, Hank, these need to cool anyway,” he said as he left the kitchen.

Upon seeing his uncle, Kurt let out a happy keening noise and reached pudgy hands out. He was very active for four months, and though he was far too young to actually do any learning, some of the older students (particularly Rogue and Kitty) delighted in babysitting him as an extracurricular home economics-type class while Raven was at work. Charles smiled and came within five feet before holding his hands out. “Hello, Kurt,” he said.

The boy let out a squeak before he disappeared in a puff of blue smoke, reappearing in Charles’s arms. Raven laughed. “Glad there’s no one else in here,” she said. The boy looked normal enough, thanks to the little bracelet Hank had given him: pale skin, dark hair, wide dark eyes. Of course, his typical blue skin, prehensile tail, and solid yellow eyes wouldn’t have gone so easily unnoticed. Charles was just glad that Hank found a better use for that cure he’d created from Raven’s DNA than injecting it into his own skin.

Kurt babbled something and Charles hummed in agreement, taking him back behind the counter. “Careful, kid,” Sean grinned, “you’ll be put to work before you can even walk.”

“I am not _that_ bad.”

Raven laughed. “How about Scott here, then? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a bit of pocket money.” Charles looked down, surprised to see the five-year-old; he was half-hidden behind Raven’s legs, and when he caught Charles looking at him, he hid further. “C’mon, bud, come say hi.”

He peeked out again, and Charles could see his own reflection in the red lenses of the child’s glasses. “Hi,” he mumbled, already the perfect picture of a sullen teenager.

“I didn’t know you were bringing him.” Smiling, Charles picked up a cookie and held it out towards Scott. “Hungry?”

Scott stared at it before he nodded and edged out from behind Raven skittishly. He took the tree shaped cookie in his hands and retreated again, but not before Hank had come out and noticed him. “Hey, Scott,” the scientist said.

“Hi, Hank,” Scott said with a bit more assurance, something that was almost a smile curving his lips.

“How are the glasses? Working good?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Still fit okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Excellent.” He looked nervous when Kurt babbled something and reached out for him as well, and before anyone could stop it, the baby had vanished again and reappeared clinging to his arm. Hank was fine with children, but he was decidedly not good with babies. And apparently, babies had the same sense that cats did: they could tell who was uncomfortable with them and did everything they could to attach themselves to said person. It was made more difficult when said baby could teleport (admittedly small) distances.

“C’mon, Kurt, you’re making Uncle Hank nervous,” Raven said as she removed her child from his arm, and if she was too busy extracting her child to see the way his face fell, Charles couldn’t call it entirely accidental. “Seriously, Hank, he’s not gonna break. If you drop him, he’ll just teleport to the floor.”

“Why do you know that?” Sean asked.

Raven ignored him. “We’re gonna go get dinner. Would you guys mind watching Scott for about an hour? His brother’s picking him up at the corner store down the street. Said something about being kept late at work.”

“Of course we don’t mind. Have a good meal, love,” Charles said, even as Sean said, ‘How many times have you dropped your baby?’. Raven just waved to them, Kurt managing his own wild wave over her shoulder before they vanished.

Scott watched them go before he stared up at Charles and Sean in a manner that could only be called baleful. He then sidled over to Hank and grabbed onto his jeans instead. Sean shook his head, muttering something under his breath about getting more stock from the back, and Charles smiled a little. Obviously, there was nothing that could be uncomplicated.

\- - -

Alex Summers was, in a word, pissed off.

“Fuck Erik Lehnsherr and his fucking attitude and his fucking cookies and his fucking face,” he muttered to himself as he marched down the sidewalk back to his (piece of shit, falling apart) bike, marking down another bakery as ‘not the goddamn one Sharkface is looking for’.

Seriously, how the hell could that ass expect him to find one bakery in, like, four zillion? Maybe hyperbole, just a bit, but it sure as hell felt like it. And what did he have to go on? ‘So I’m looking for a bakery that a blonde girl works at, and they also have these German cookies with powdered sugar on them and other stuff in them.’ _That_ was certain to get him to his destination in about four years.

“Shit,” Alex muttered as he tucked his notebook into his jacket pocket and turned the ignition. He really hated driving in New York (who didn’t?) but it was, overall, a hell of a lot easier than working the bus lines and subway system in tandem with the strange errands Erik had him run. He glanced at his watch and muttered another curse. He’d talked to someone at Scott’s school, and they’d told him not to worry about it.

At least the corner store that he’d be picking him up at was in the Village, not in Westchester, and therefore considerably closer. Alex muttered to himself as he passed through traffic, ending up fifteen minutes late when he stopped in front of the designated building. Scott was under the awning, talking animatedly to a scrawny guy with windswept brown hair and hipster glasses. Alex frowned, because Scott didn’t talk that openly to anyone at all but him, and no, he wasn’t jealous, it was just weird.

“Hey, Scott,” he called, surprised the sound of the engine hadn’t attracted the kid’s attention first. His brother perked up, and Scrawny Dude turned to look at him too, and that was _definitely_ disapproval on his nerdy features. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic,” he added, and Scrawny Dude looked mollified. “You ready to go, dude?”

“Yeah,” Scott said.

Typically, Scott lived at Xavier’s during the week, but since Alex lived in Brooklyn, he always came to his apartment over the weekends. Damn Erik and his errands to hell, he was not missing a weekend with his little brother just because Sharkface had to find a goddamn bakery.

“You’re Alex?” Scrawny Dude asked as Scott went through the well-practiced ritual of attaching his backpack to his brother’s bike.

“Yeah,” Alex said, suspicion rising like an insect crawling up his spine. “What of it?”

“Nothing,” Scrawny Dude shrugged. “Scott talks about you, that’s all.”

“He’s Hank,” Scott said as he reached into the paper bag in his hand and pulled out a small spice cookie covered in powdered sugar, holding it up to show it to Alex. “See?”

“Yeah, I see,” Alex said distractedly, his mind on more important things than snacks Scott had brought home from school. “Wait, you’re the guy who made his glasses?” Scott shrugged, shoved the cookie into his mouth whole, and detached his small helmet from the back of the bike.

“Uh, yeah,” Scrawny Dude said, clearing his throat. “I’m, Hank, um, McCoy.”

“Well, damn,” Alex said, extending his hand to Hank “Um” McCoy. “I owe you huge, then, man. Those glasses were a lifesaver. I was afraid Scott was gonna have to go around with his eyes closed the rest of his life.”

Hank blinked before shaking both his head and Alex’s hand. “No, it’s... I was glad to do it. I’m glad they work for him.”

Scott climbed onto the back of the bike and patted Alex’s back. “Dinner?” he chirped.

Alex glanced back at him over his shoulder and smirked. “Yeah, dude, sure.” He looked back at Hank. “Seriously. I owe you at least something. Dinner, at the very least.” He hesitated before he added, “Want to come?”

“Oh, no, I have... it... I have work,” Hank said, gesturing back down the street. “I’m helping a, uh, a friend in the evenings.”

“Surely you have to eat? We’ll figure something out,” Alex said airily as he waved one hand. “I know where you work, now. ...hell, I know where you _live_ ,” he said with a lopsided smirk. “I’ll be in touch.” He revved the engine and then he was gone, not giving Hank a chance to respond.

He and Scott picked up Chinese, and Alex watched his little brother fall asleep in front of old Dragon Ball Z episodes, rice stuck to the front of his shirt and his mouth just slightly open. He smirked to himself before gathering the kid up, taking him into his bedroom and changing him to pajamas with a minimal amount of fussing.

If his mind hadn’t been so focused on just how exactly he could thank Hank McCoy for what he did for his brother, he probably would have put more thought to the cookie Scott had showed him and how damn familiar it looked.

Later, he’d blame Hank and his face for being distracting.

\- - -

“I hate nightclubs,” Erik muttered under his breath as he adjusted the cuffs of his expensive, deep wine-colored shirt.

Next to him, Azazel smirked, white teeth gleaming against the red of his skin. “You hate everything, I think,” the Russian said. “It is good for you to get out. This is good place for it. You will stop obsessing over the bakery.”

Erik scoffed quietly as Azazel instructed him to pull up in front of a run-down looking building. “This is a club?” he asked, disbelievingly.

“You, Lehnsherr, should know not to take everything so serious. Looks deceive,” Azazel said, an air of ‘look how wise I am’ in his words. A young man--a kid, really, there was no other way for Erik to look at him--hurried out of the doors and took the keys as they stepped onto the sidewalk. Erik snorted. An abandoned building with valet parking.

Adorable.

Once inside, however, Erik had to change his opinion drastically. It was like they had been teleported to another dimension, and knowing the clientele the Hellfire Club catered to, it wasn’t completely out of the question. Mutants of all shapes, sizes, and colors milled around, talking and laughing under the undulating colored lights. Girls wearing barely anything at all showing off glittering wings and scales that shone wetly like jewels and feathers that seemed to melt from color to color wove between tables with trays of food and drinks. A young man at the bar took orders from one end to the other and then proceeded to split himself in seven and perform an intricate routine. On the stage, an older woman was singing what sounded like a quartet by herself.

“Azazel!”

They both turned at the call as what Erik could only assume was one of the waitresses came towards them. Long black hair framed her face, her leather clothes just barely kept her decent for appearing in public, and glass-like wings fluttered behind her as she embraced Azazel briefly. They broke apart and the girl noticed Erik, giving him an appreciative once-over that lingered on the area between his shoulders and knees a little too long for his liking. “And who’s this?”

“This is Erik,” Azazel said. “Erik, Angel. She works here.”

“Pleasure,” Angel practically purred, holding her hand out to Erik. He shook it carefully and returned his hands to his pockets, suddenly glad that Azazel hadn’t introduced him by his full name.

They followed Angel back to a private table in a back corner, black and red leather seating surrounding three sides of a low, circular table. Azazel bent to kiss a blue-skinned young woman on the cheek--he immediately made the connection to the girlfriend Azazel had mentioned in passing--and slid in beside her.

Erik was quickly introduced to those around the table as he sat. Angel was apparently on a break and going to be joining them. The blue-skinned woman was Raven, a shapeshifter who demonstrated her ability by turning into him. There was Armando, who quickly insisted that he preferred Darwin, a man with the curiously vague ability to ‘adapt to any situation’, as he put it. Remy, with his Louisianan drawl, straight up refused to demonstrate his ability because he ‘blew shit up’. Janos, who was introduced by someone else and seemed disinclined to talk, who could apparently make cyclones (Erik didn’t expect a demonstration on that either).

An interesting group, as it were.

“I know who you are,” Darwin said, once introductions were done. “You’re Erik Lehnsherr, right?” He grinned. “I saw your picture in the paper yesterday.”

Erik sighed, reaching up to rub his temples. “Yes, I remember the article.”

“No shit?” Angel asked, picking up a drink and leaning back into the crook of Remy’s arm. “I didn’t know you were a mutant.”

“I don’t publicize it.”

“You did too know, Angel,” Raven said. “We had this discussion.”

“We did?”

Raven rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like, three weeks ago.”

That started up what sounded like a very old conversation that was being rehashed again, mostly on mutant rights. Erik, frankly, wasn’t surprised. The topic felt like it was hanging over them like a Sword of Damocles every day.

“It’s not hiding,” Raven was insisting, “it’s more complicated than that. You know what they’d do to us if we were too open about our mutations.”

“That’s your brother talking,” Remy said, pointing the glowing ember at the end of his cigarette at her.

Darwin shrugged. “Charles isn’t always wrong. Besides, it’s not like we don’t have the proof of what would happen to us if we just started parading around our mutations.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Two words, my friend: Hulk Hunters.”

“That’s completely different and you know it. The Hulk’s not even a mutant.”

“No, he’s a mutae, which is close enough to a mutant that the humans aren’t exactly going to give a shit.”

“So’s Captain America, if you’re going to be picky about it.”

“It’s okay if the government sanctions it.”

“Look,” Raven said, cutting in, “all I’m saying is... it’s easy enough for guys like you, Remy, your mutation isn’t physical. Like, ever.” Remy raised an eyebrow, and she added, “Name _one_ human that has thought your eyes weren’t contacts.”

“Point.”

“I don’t like it. In fact, I hate it. But until humanity recognizes that we’re here and we’re not going away... There are worse things than hiding. Like torture.”

“At least you can walk the streets,” Azazel said mildly, and Remy cleared his throat uncomfortably while Raven patted his knee.

“We’re working to change all of that,” Erik said, swirling his whiskey in his hand. “But the humans are a stupid lot, for the most part. You’re not going to change anything with peace talks, and the way we’re going, they’re going to start registering us, and it won’t be long before it gets worse.”

Angel shook her head. “What are you suggesting, then?”

“Better to be feared than for them to think of us as easy targets. What would you do?”

Darwin shrugged. “The peace talks have been going well. I mean, from what I hear.”

“Xavier thinks he can fix everything with words,” Erik said, not noticing the way the mood at the table shifted just slightly. “He’s the only mutant voice being heard. I think that needs to change.”

“Well,” Azazel said into the brief silence, “work needs to be done all around. For now, though, vodka.”

Raven smirked. “I can’t leave Kurt with my brother all night, you know.”

“As though he’d refuse you.”

Erik stayed for two more hours, but every time he caught the scent of cinnamon, his thoughts drifted back to the bakery, and he eventually excused himself and made his way home. However, they were several hopefuls for recruits, and he entrusted the task to Azazel as he left. He got his car back, trusting that the Russian could just teleport himself home when he was done, and made his way back to his penthouse apartment.

He checked his messages and felt a flicker of annoyance when he saw Alex hadn’t even sent him a text message to tell him the status of his job. Immediately afterwards, Erik felt annoyed at himself, because was finding the bakery really that important, in the grand scheme of things?

He sighed inwardly. Of course it was.

Well, if Alex was going to slack on the job, Erik would just have to do some searching himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex needs to pay better attention, methinks.


End file.
